Sweet Heat

by Zuri Day

  6

  Fourteen hours from the time he’d left the restaurant, Marvin flopped back on the king-size bed, naked as the day he cabbage-patched into the world. Rarely hungry after cooking through a long shift, he’d visited a drive-through, bought an extra-large chocolate shake, and placed the remainder in the freezer while he showered off the day. He’d retrieved it and now had all he’d need for the remainder of the evening—the rest of the shake, a bottle of water, a bag of hot chips, a box of cookies, and the phone where he’d just tapped the speaker button after placing a call.

  “This is Naomi. What the hell you want?” Said cheerfully, with the words strung together in a way that made them melodious and made Marvin laugh.

  “Girl! That’s no way to answer a phone.”

  “I usually don’t, but I knew it was you.”

  “How’d you know? I didn’t give you my phone number.”

  “I knew.”

  “Yeah, right. What are you doing?”

  “Talking to you.”

  “Do you have a smart answer for everything?”

  “Smart girl. Smart answers. No dumb ones, sorry. Hope you can keep up.”

  “Dang, Naomi. All that mouth, I know you don’t have a man.”

  “You mean,” she said seductively, “with all this mouth . . . how many do I have.”

  For Marvin it was a double, a triple, a quadruple entendre. He shifted in the bed.

  “So was that one of your girls who almost got slapped today?”

  A chuckle. “Who, Charlotte?”

  “I guess so. It was getting ready to be Charmin on account of how I was going to wipe off the floor with her rude, unprofessional ass.”

  “Charlotte has . . . issues.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  “She wishes I was.”

  “I was about to be one, and she wouldn’t have liked it at all. You came to the table just in time. Superman’s timing couldn’t have been any better.”

  “So . . . you think I’m Superman, huh?”

  “You probably think you’re Superman,” she said.

  “I’m just going by what the ladies tell me.”

  “Oh, Lord, help me! I can fertilize a football field with all the crap you’re talking!”

  “Yeah, whatever. Why’d you come in today, then?” he asked.

  “The same reason everybody else did. Hungry. Wanted to eat.”

  “How many places did you pass up to get to mine?”

  “How many places did all of those other people pass up?”

  Marvin laughed, pulled the sheet over himself to ward off the chill. The woman’s sarcasm and constant barbs should be getting on his nerves. So why did they make him feel good instead, almost giddy?

  “I’ll go ahead and say it because you already know. When it comes to a good, down-home breakfast, nobody does it better than the Soul Spot.”

  “Nobody does it better than them, when I’m cooking.”

  “Your cooking made my cousin sick.”

  “What?”

  “After we left the restaurant, she got sick.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “And y’all ate the same thing, right?”

  A pause and then, “Right.”

  “Then she may have gotten sick, but it wasn’t from my food.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Hmm.”

  “The French toast you ate today, had you ordered it before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it the same or better, tell the truth.”

  “Well, since you’re begging for compliments . . . it was better, and delicious.”

  “What was different? I want to test your palate, see how well developed it is.”

  “Then you should have called me earlier, right after I ate. That was breakfast. I’ve had lunch, dinner, and a couple snacks since then.”

  “That’s the reason? Okay.”

  “That caramel-pecan syrup was everything. So good. I tasted caramel in that . . . and pecans.”

  “Girl, you’re crazy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And even though we don’t allow boxing in the dining room, I like how you took up for your cousin today, your thoughts about family being everything. That’s how we Carters roll. You must come from a big family, too.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why do you feel so strongly about family?”

  “Maybe that’s why, because I have such a small one.” She paused. Marvin started to make a joke but detected a subtle shift in the tone of her voice and remained quiet. “I grew up with my grandmother, mostly. Kristy is my cousin, but we’re more like sisters.”

  “That sounds like a family to me.”

  “But not a typical one. Parents are missing from the picture.”

  “Why? It’s none of my business and if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Said in a quiet voice tinged with vulnerability, one that sounded as though it was not okay at all. “My dad left when I was really little, maybe four or five. I barely remember him—what he looked like, or anything else. There’s a blurred image of a big guy, loud. One day he came home with a stuffed animal bigger than me. A rainbow-colored unicorn. I was so excited, slept with it and everything. That’s my only real memory of him and me interacting. He left shortly after that. I don’t know why.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She died.”

  That’s all she said, in a way that told Marvin that’s all she wanted to say. He obliged her, even as the sadness in her tone caused a crack in his heart. A tear just big enough for a bit of her essence to slip inside it. For some of the bricks in his wall against being attracted to her to tumble out.

  “What about you? As conceited and self-assured as you act, I’m sure there were plenty women around to spoil you. Squeeze those big jowls you probably had and say, ‘Isn’t he a cute snuggle bug.’”

  “I grew up in a house with four brothers. My dad’s an army vet. Wasn’t too much snuggling going on.”

  The shield was firmly back in place, but in that moment he got it. Why she portrayed herself as a loudmouth badass, brimming with confidence and devil-may-care. It was her armor, a shield. One she’d let down so that he could see who she really was. He liked the view.

  “But you’re the baby, right?”

  “No, the fourth of five. And we have a big sister, Anita, who isn’t our biological sister but might as well be. She was our next-door neighbor and spent more time in our house than she did in her own. Ironically, she’d lost her mother also. Mom stepped in and filled that space.”

  “Like Nana.”

  “That’s what you call your grandmother?”

  “Yeah. Are you guys close?”

  “Very, in age and everything else. Mama wouldn’t have it any other way. Growing up, Dad was gone for long stretches of time. He fought in the Middle East. Never talked about it, not to us kids anyway. Mama was determined not to lose us to the streets. Couldn’t roam the block at will or be out after dark. So we mostly played with each other. Back then we thought it was unfair and fought just as much as we got along. But looking at it now, that tough love helped us become the men we are now and probably saved all of our lives.”

  “Your parents still together?”

  “Very much so. They’ve been married over thirty-five years.”

  “Wow. You don’t see that much these days.”

  “Didn’t see it much back then, either. Our block was an exception though. Almost every household was a two-parent family with values, standards, and goals for the kids. Everybody stuck together. Partied together, kids fought and played together, everything.”

  “Is that how the block party got started?”

  “I guess so. Never really gave it much thought. We stayed close to home mainly because it was more fun hanging out on our block and with our families than hanging with anyone else. S
o, when’s the last time you came out to one?”

  “A couple years ago. Went with my cousin Kristy, matter of fact. The one with me at the restaurant. So that big festival, with all the stages and the block shut down, just grew out of families hanging out?”

  “I think it just . . . happened. A couple neighbors decided to barbecue together one year and then another family joined them. And then another. It kept growing from there. Got so big we eventually got permission to shut down the block and turned it into a street party, one that is now put on by our neighborhood association. My mom has always been very active in it. One of their goals was having a close-knit group that felt like family, where everybody looked after and took care of each other. Where any grown-up had the same authority as a parent and any kid was looked after by any adult as their own. Having the annual street party was something where everyone could participate, and those who’d moved away could come back and catch up. It kept growing and more people kept coming until it became an event not to miss, the way it is now.”

  “How many women are you messing with?”

  “Whoa. That was quite a segue.”

  “Really? I thought it was a question.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “So it’s like that, huh? Too many to name.”

  “Ha! How do you figure?”

  “You’re dancing around the question harder than Michael Jackson danced onstage. That usually happens when one is avoiding the question that’s been asked. I don’t care anyway, just making conversation. The only man I’m focused on right now is the one who will give me the keys to a food truck and a check to get started.”

  “How is someone going to give you the keys to my food truck?”

  “You mean my food truck, fool. There’s no way you’re winning that contest. We might as well get that straight now.”

  “I agree. We need to get it straight. I’m winning, but I’m going to need an assistant. If you play your cards right, you might get the job.”

  “Yeah, someone to assist you off the floor after you fall out from losing. But wait, you’ve got your girlfriends to help with that. Including that old white woman feeling you up yesterday.”

  “What old white woman?”

  “There was more than one?”

  Marvin laughed out loud. “You mean Abbey? I’m sure she’d be mad to hear you call her old.”

  “I don’t know her name and she looks old. But I saw you all hugged up with her when I walked past where the desserts were being tested.”

  “So you were stalking me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, dude. I was on my way to the room right across from there, where you came over once you got the hat.”

  “Abbey isn’t old. She’s mid-forties, maybe.”

  “She can tell somebody else that lie. That face has seen at least fifty ball drops, maybe more.”

  “Ball drops?”

  “Yeah, Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Oh. I think the gray in Abbey’s hair makes her look older. She was one of my instructors from culinary school. I don’t have a girlfriend right now. You applying?”

  “Maybe, but I command a high salary.”

  “No problem. After winning Food Truck Bucks, I’ll have fifty Gs.”

  “You mean after winning you’ll have a job. On my truck.”

  “Girl, I can’t wait to shut that mouth!”

  “How are you going to do that?” Naomi’s voice turned seductive. “By covering it with your big yap-yap?”

  “Hmm, alright now. You might want to be careful, baby girl. Don’t play with fire unless you want to get burned.”

  “I can handle the heat.”

  “I bet you can. All nice and juicy looking. And not just your lips. In fact, that’s what I’m going to call you. Juicy.”

  “Ah, that’s cute. My grandfather used to call Nana ‘Juicy Fruit.’”

  “For you no fruity, just juicy.”

  “You can give me nicknames and flirt all you want. I’m still going to win.”

  Marvin didn’t dispute the claim. Why not let her enjoy the fantasy? There was no doubt in his mind that Marvin Carter would win the competition. Maybe he’d get a bonus by winning over Naomi Carson, too. But for now . . . he allowed her to dream.

  7

  Naomi thought the wait would be endless, but the rest of May flew by in a blur and in no time she awoke to a new month and the first preliminary round of Food Truck Bucks. Her and Marvin had texted back and forth a few times but hadn’t talked since that night after the general call. Her dating calendar stayed as barren as the desert, and more than once Naomi had almost called him. But she figured a girlfriend, or friend with benefits, or booty call, or whatever, had kept him busy and she didn’t want to come off as a thirsty girl. So Naomi had spent her nights with Mr. Big, her dildo, and had a blast partying in Vegas with her fantasy husband, the lead singer in Boyz II Men. As of today, right now, party time was over. It was time to go to work and win her freedom from the 99 Cents Store and Nana’s house. She dressed with care, telling herself it was about putting forward her best face and had nothing to do with the fact that the man she’d missed after just one meeting would be there, too.

  “Where are you going, baby? They got you working weekends again?”

  Naomi reached the door but stopped and turned at Nana’s question. “No, Nana, I’m off today. I’m headed to the convention center. The preliminary rounds happen this month, remember?”

  “That’s what I thought until you came out of your room just now. That’s a pretty fancy outfit for cooking.”

  “What, this old thing?”

  Technically correct if, like a car, a top depreciated the minute it left the store, since Naomi had just bought it last week. The blue and white vertical-striped, wraparound number accentuated her forty double-Ds while slimming the tire around her middle. The thigh-teasing design downplayed her hips, and the three-quarter slacks and slingback mules helped bolster the illusion that thunder did not clap with her thighs.

  “You look very nice, dear.”

  “Thank you, Nana.” She opened the door.

  “I’m sure your young man will think so, too.”

  “Nana, the only person I’m trying to impress is myself!”

  “Very good, child, and sounded real convincing. Did you practice in the mirror?”

  “You know what . . .” Naomi made a face as she turned to leave. The delightful tinkle of her grandmother’s giggle followed her out the door.

  She got into the car and backed out of the drive, but didn’t turn on the stereo, which was normally the first thing that happened after buckling her belt. She didn’t tap the wheel to call Kristy either. For Naomi it was time to think, get focused, be prepared for whatever test or exercise the judges had concocted for this elimination round. The only hint given last week was that there was no need to bring anything from home as they’d be judged on something prepared there. On the spot. But that’s as much as they’d say. Not whether it was an appetizer or an entrée. Not how much time they’d have to prepare the meal. Not whether they’d be working alone or in teams. Just be ready to cook. Those were the parting words. Every night after getting home from work, Nana had met Naomi in the kitchen, where they’d stood side by side trying this and preparing that. Admittedly, desserts were her weak spot, so that’s where most of the time was spent. After tasting Marvin’s pecan log cake, Naomi knew she’d have to create a masterpiece to win it all. She’d kept her comments nonchalant, but that man had put his foot, knee, and thigh into that dish! The thought had been reinforced the next day at the restaurant, when he’d made that batch of caramel-pecan syrup, just for their table. He knew what he was doing. Giving them extras. Being all friendly. Trying to whittle down her defenses and throw her off her game. She’d eat any sweet he put in front of her, but when it came to the competition, Naomi was taking no prisoners!

  “Yes! That’s right!” Feeling mentally ready to face whatever got thrown to
her, she reached over and pressed the button on what had been her theme song for the past year, by a singer named Jan Baker, the woman who’d knocked Beyoncé off the throne and become Naomi’s shero. She danced in her seat, zoomed around a couple of Saturday-morning sightseers, and exited off the freeway into downtown, singing as though onstage.

  “ You be you and I’ll be me. I’m the best me I ever could be. Yeah! Don’t fit your mold? Don’t give a damn. You be who you are and I’ll be who I am!’”

  Inside the convention center, signs directed Naomi to a different room than had been used last week. This one, she saw, was set up much more as she’d initially imagined. She quickly counted twenty cooking stations, each having a full-size range and a large, island-style prep table with a wooden top. A blender, block of cutting knives, and a mandoline were among the items to the right of the otherwise empty counter. Beneath the prep counter were cookware, bowls of various sizes, and a bevy of cooking utensils. Having scoped out the “rink” where she’d slay the opposition, Naomi looked around for a sign or assistant to tell her where she needed to check in and what she needed to do. About twenty feet away from her was a frantic-looking young woman with tousled brown hair, clutching a tablet, wearing a headset and talking nonstop into the mouthpiece. She wore a white shirt with FOOD TRUCK BUCKS emblazoned across the back. Naomi walked toward her. The woman looked up when she was about two feet away and pointed to her right without pausing the conversation. Naomi was about to get an attitude until her eyes followed where the worker’s finger directed and settled on a rectangular table under a sign that read START HERE. Three women sat beneath the sign wearing tired smiles, pointing out directions and typing on laptops. Naomi walked over, got signed in, and learned that all further instructions would be given out by the host. Finally, she could relax. Grabbing a complimentary bottle of water out of a huge ice-filled container, she downed a swig and for the first time since arriving took in the people around her. Of all the contestants she’d met last week, Marvin was the only one she knew for sure had gone to the next round.